


Redemption Equals

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Bonding, Established Relationship, Exasperated Sherlock, Holmes Family, M/M, Oblivious John, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”I'm going to kill Mycroft Holmes,” John Watson announces as he enters the flat, leaves his snowy winter coat hanging on the knob by the door and stomps to the kitchen. ”I'm going to bloody well kill him, and then I'm going to burn the body along with his stupid dossiers and pour salt on the ashes. Also, we're out of milk, again. How come is that even possible, Sherlock?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's time for the truth to come out. This became a humongous mess, so I cut it in half. Part two is almost finished and coming soon to a computer near you.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely commenters for your feedback and questions, they mean a world!

”I'm going to kill Mycroft Holmes,” John Watson announces as he enters the flat, leaves his snowy winter coat hanging on the knob by the door and stomps to the kitchen. ”I'm going to bloody well kill him, and then I'm going to burn the body along with his stupid dossiers and pour salt on the ashes. Also, we're out of milk, again. How come is that even possible, Sherlock?”

“MI6,” Sherlock reminds him blithely from behind his microscope. “Chicken cultures.”

John groans. “Yes yes, I remember. You've been experimenting on the food? We have discussed this!”

“I've been _cooking_ ,” Sherlock corrects him, as if this is in any way normal behaviour for consulting detectives. “So, he had another chat with you. The topic of which was?”

John collapses on his chair, stares at his lover of five months. He looks like Sherlock, he smells like Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn't cook. Ever.

“You've been – making food?”

“Yes, John, excellent listening comprehension skills. Now, Mycroft?”

“Like, actual, consumable food? That you can eat? And not be poisoned?”

“ _Yes_ , John. Steering the conversation back to Mycroft now.”

“But, why?”

Sherlock lets out the sigh of the long-suffering. “Because I was hungry.”

“Oh,” says John weakly, “that's all right then.”

“Yes, I rather thought so as well. There's quite a lot left in the fridge. On the _safe_ shelf.” Sherlock pronounces the word 'safe' as other people might say 'mind-numbing boredom', not raising his eyes from his slides for a moment. There's something weird going on around his cheekbones, however.

“Oh my God you're blushing, why are you blushing?”

Sherlock mumbles something to the microscope.

“What?”

“Mycroft!”

“No, I'm quite sure that wasn't it,” John muses, gets back to his feet and circles the table to Sherlock's side, reaching for him. It still feels like a privilege to be allowed these casual touches, it feels like a miracle every time Sherlock leans back to him, melts against his body. Who would ever have guessed that they, with all of their sharp corners and an impressive shared collection of trust issues, could fit so well together?

“And now you cook, and put the food afterwards to the fridge, to the safe shelf,” John recites, rubbing circles against Sherlock's tense shoulders, hunched neck. A pleased humming fills the air.

“I said, I had to make room for it. I threw the cow lung away, it was too burned anyway,” Sherlock confesses and drops his hands from the laboratory equipment to his lap. He lets out a relaxed sigh and slumps against John.

“You wonder of a genius,” John replies gently and gets an ugly snort in response.

“Mycroft offered me a file about Harry. Said that since we're practically family now, it's the least he can do. Asked if I wanted weekly reports as well. The spying bastard.”

“And you said no.”

“Of course. But that's not all of it. Sherlock, he asked about us. If I wanted to bond with you or not.”

Under his palms, Sherlock tenses up in a heartbeat. The relaxed atmosphere is gone.

“What did you say?” A careful question, eyes fixed on the far wall, fingers already raising towards the old scar on his neck. John is ready for that, catches that hand with his own, brings it to his lips and kisses the white knuckles.

“I told him to fuck off,” he answers simply, but Sherlock doesn't unwind. He doesn't unwind for a long time.

–

And it bothers John, bothers him more than he'd like to admit, that there are huge patches of Sherlock's past of which he knows nothing. He's given himself this same internal speech so many times that he could time it, that Sherlock wouldn't approve of him prying, that he's allowed his privacy, that he's under no condition to spill his beans to John. There are things about John's own past that he doesn't want to discuss with his lover either, the dark moments after the discharge, the PTSD, some of the details with Harry. Sherlock probably has deduced that all anyway, but at least he doesn't have to say them aloud. There's a difference.

But seeing Sherlock unhappy and distressed hurts him in ways which have nothing to do with logic and everything to do with emotion and biology. Sherlock is more than capable of taking care of himself, but if John's not careful he'll still slip up and the protective instincts are never buried very deep. How much of them are about Sherlock being an omega, and how much of them are about Sherlock being Sherlock he won't let himself analyse, won't disrespect his lover so.

Sherlock will speak to him if he wants to, if he feels ready to. And before that happens, John won't mention the elephant in the room, so bluntly brought forth by Mycroft's meddling ways.

Because tampering with the bond is no simple matter. It requires all three people present, the currently bonded pair and the new partner. Everybody has to be willing. It's complicated, and it's fatiguing, if not actually dangerous, to the omega. That Mycroft would offer that so matter-of-factly to John, without even asking for Sherlock's opinion first, is enough to make him feel sick. What does Mycroft think he is, handling his brother like a piece of merchandise for John's benefit? Sherlock, clearly, couldn't be less pleased about the offer. John tells himself very sternly not to feel a pang of disappointment about that. It's not his decision to make, and it certainly isn't Mycroft's either.

And he loathes himself for that one unguarded moment when he let his surprise rule, and blurted out “You could do that?” before thinking, because of course that had been enough, and his secret was out. Mycroft had given him one of his patented fake smiles, but behind the façade the little wheels were moving, his worth measured. Mycroft in his protective brother-mode was practically feral.

 _It's probably a relief for England that he isn't bonded_ , John allows himself to think. _God knows what he'd be like with a bondmate._

“Doctor Watson, there are much more testing things in this world I'm capable of doing,” the elder Holmes had answered placidly and then offered him a lift home. The bastard.

One of these days, John is going to bloody well kill Mycroft Holmes.

–

There are sandwiches for supper, and Sherlock eats two. Afterwards he picks up his violin, and if his upset was unclear earlier, it becomes evident with the half-angry, half-melancholy melodies he conjures up from the instrument. John ends up going to bed alone, which isn't surprising at all. He lies awake, listening to the midnight sonata and fretting about Sherlock. This, too, isn't out of the ordinary. John Watson, professional Sherlock-worrier. He's as bad as Mycroft. He should stop grumbling about the spook, since he's doing the same things himself.

What isn't normal is that soon after midnight the playing abruptly stops. John hears a fridge door open, then close. The lights go out from the kitchen, and Sherlock wanders to the bathroom. He takes a quick shower, and then the bedroom door opens and the world's only consulting detective stands momentarily backlit on the threshold, taking John's breath away. The git's always had a knack for the theatrical.

John's not one to wax lyrical about the graces of his flatmate, but if he knew a year ago what he knows now he wouldn't have had the force of will to stay away from this bedroom. The man is a master's study both in asceticism and abundance. The severe lines of his body are topped by the untameable curls of his hair, the indulgent curves of his lips, the tantalising swell of his arse. In between, muscles and tendons lie flat against the skin, porcelain white except where it's mottled by the most delightful hamlets of freckles or underlit by the blue veins in his arms and throat. 

He's so ethereal that it still sometimes surprises John when he touches that skin and it's soft, malleable under his fingers. Sherlock is no marble statue despite his appearance. His blood runs hot and he's always in motion, even while sleeping he can't stay still, taken by one vivid dream or another, twisting and turning until the sheets are tangled around their ankles and the pillows end up on the floor. He's not an easy sleepmate, but the privilege of seeing him unguarded, his face melted into slack peace, his all-seeing eyes flickering behind the pale lids, is enough of a compensation as far as John's concerned.

The bathroom light is flicked off and soon Sherlock is sliding beneath the duvet, going unashamedly for the warmth of John's body. His feet are cold, as is his nose which he buries shamelessly into the crook of John's neck. Long arms wrap around his chest, and eyelashes brush against his chin. It's a bliss, plain and simple.

“You're early,” he mumbles against the hot skin of Sherlock's forehead.

“I'm sleepy,” comes the quiet statement.

“Hmm, sleepy and hungry, what's gotten into you?”

His only answer is a soft mumble which soon morphs into deep breathing. The slight jerks of the body lying next to him confirm his surprised analysis – Sherlock doesn't fall asleep this quickly. Except that, apparently, sometimes he does. Resting with him like this is an uncommon luxury, he's used to be the first one asleep and the first one up. John can't resist caressing the disorderly curls of his lover, now that he's free to do that without a fear of a scowling retort. He covers Sherlock's shoulders with the duvet and his fingers fall on the mysterious scar on his neck. There are two now, the old one and his own, which Sherlock still worries daily. It's been months since he placed his claim on that long expanse of skin, and still the mark stands red. 

Who hides behind the first scar? John only knows that it's a male, and that he was alive half a year ago. He knows that whatever happened was traumatising enough to leave a lasting mark on Sherlock's psyche, and that Mycroft knows where he is, but considers it better that he and Sherlock remain separated. He knows that the bonding was not planned and that Sherlock's mother is angry at him – and why is she angry at her son and not the alpha? There's history in there, but Sherlock doesn't discuss his family. If the strained relationship he has with his brother is a good indicator at all, those bridges may have burnt ages ago.

It feels odd, being jealous of somebody he has never met and whom he still manages to hate. He wraps a possessive arm around the warm waist, but this is too much of a luxury to give in to sleep just yet. Sherlock's temple has found its way to his own shoulder and his humid breath breaks against John's skin. He didn't know what to expect when they first became lovers, but this wasn't it. They aren't cuddlers, either of them. They are too conscious of personal boundaries, of past uncertainties to just surrender to such a simple closeness.

There have been some lovely moments of reading side by side on the sofa, the ritual of a shared breakfast on his days off (from John's plate and Sherlock's mug), the lazy mornings morphing into whole days spent doing nothing at all. Sherlock is still too loud and John still has a temper. At the crime scenes it's business as usual, and Sherlock hasn't dropped his habit of demanding John's time during his clinic hours (which has finally made him understand what it must've looked like to outsiders all along – poor Sarah). The only thing that has changed – that John has tried his damnedest to change anyway – are emotions.

He never thought he'd find himself in a relationship where he's the one to go on talking about the pesky things. Where he's the open one, the concerned one, the one sounding like those glossy-covered magazines.

Simply put, Sherlock doesn't do emotions. They scare him the same way phantom pain in John's leg scares the doctor. He needs to be overwhelmed, either by adrenaline or sensation, to manage them at all. Since John can't fuck him through the mattress every time he thinks something is wrong, and the supply of handy criminals isn't limitless, many things go unsaid between them.

It's not that Sherlock doesn't feel emotions, because he does, and strongly. Understanding them, accepting them, articulating them, that's the problem. Luckily, John isn't quite as stupid as some people have insinuated, and Sherlock does have tells. How easy it is to distract him from a thought, biting his lower lip, and, of course, the scar. Both the starting point and the measuring stick of his fledgling emotional awareness.

Nobody keeps opening a wound accidentally for months on end, no matter what Sherlock claims. When he's distracted, or concerned, or high on logic, he fondles the damn thing. He won't let it heal in peace, and that annoys John to no end. He's already apologised, explained himself over and over again, but semantics have proven useless in this case. John gets it that Sherlock doesn't want to be tied down any more than he already is, but waving the sign of his one failure in his face constantly isn't doing any favours for John's self-esteem.

But John has to keep an eye out for Sherlock's little quirks, because if he's not careful the idiotic man may just pull out another stunt like walking out on the four alphas with his heat all over himself because he couldn't bring himself to ask for a bit of John's attention which he had anyway and could easily deduce by the hundreds of begging texts John had sent him during that day. Because Sherlock Holmes may be a brilliant genius when it comes to other people, but he has a massive blind spot which is the exact size and shape of himself.

Morning arrives fast, and John wakes up to find himself burrowed into the warm softness of the bed with long arms wrapped around his chest. Sherlock hasn't moved during the night, and he's still sleeping peacefully next to John in the weak light of the sunrise. A brief flash of concern clouds his mind, but honestly, this is normal behaviour. Maybe he's just exhausted. Lord knows John himself often is. If he wasn't working today, there'd be no way he'd rise this early, ingrained army habits or not.

Maybe they are both going down with the flu, John muses and gives a huge yawn. It's not just Sherlock who's tired. However, duty calls and John slips away from the bed, pads quietly to the bathroom. He goes through his morning rituals on autopilot, drinks his cup of coffee standing by the windows and takes in the unfamiliar sight of the streets covered in fresh snow. Cars make their way around the city slower than usual and pedestrians walk briskly in the cold morning air, their exhalations rising in small frosty puffs as they go. He's taking the tube this morning.

–

True to form, the first text arrives before his lunch break.

_Where are you? SH._

By the time he has a moment to answer, there are three more.

_Oh, at work. Thought you might be downstairs with Mrs Hudson. Tried yelling but she didn't hear me. SH._

_Did you know that the crime rate in London drops momentarily by 17% when it's snowing? SH._

_John, call Mrs Hudson. Tell her to come upstairs. I require more tea. SH._

He reads the texts while sipping his coffee, a fond smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

_I wish I could be bored and lazy with you today, but these ear inflammations won't diagnose themselves._

He gets an answer before the mug is empty.

_Return to Baker St. immediately. SH._

This is a common enough request that John doesn't even blink. But Sherlock had been extremely tired last night. Better check than be sorry later.

_Is something wrong?_

_Yes. The weather's dreadful. We do have a fireplace. SH._

_I'm working._

_I'm cold. Return immediately. SH._

_Light your own fire. I'm working._

–

It's dark by the time John opens their front door. A sweet scent of baking greets him from 221A. He also catches the smell of burning wood from upstairs. It seems that Mrs Hudson has been busy.

“John? Is that you?” Comes a chirpy call from her kitchen. John brushes sleet away from his shoes and heads that way, hoping for a little taste of whatever it is she's been making.

“Hullo, Mrs H,” he greets and peeks into the oven. Cinnamon buns, Sherlock's favourite.

“Is there something wrong, John?” Mrs Hudson whispers into his ear while he's crouching on the floor. He gives her a mystified stare.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think it's wise to leave him alone?”

His mind scrolls through possible signs of drug use, of depression, of anything suspicious he might have missed and comes up with nothing. He shrugs helplessly.

“They needed me at work. It's the influenza season.”

His explanation is clearly inadequate.

“Oh John, I'm disappointed with you. You should've stayed here, with him.”

What has Sherlock been telling her? Whatever it is, Mrs Hudson has clearly taken it to heart. He's never been glared at quite so disapprovingly.

“Mrs Hudson, he doesn't even have a fever. He's doing fine. My patients, however, need my help.”

“Oh let him be, Mrs H,” comes a lazy drawl from the door. They both turn, guiltily. Sherlock stands on the doorsill, leaning against the frame and clad in his usual combo of pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown. Except that -

“Wait, is that three -”

“Three gowns,” Sherlock completes the sentence John can't quite make himself utter. And there they all are, first the red one, then the tartan one and lastly the blue one. All of them, hanging from his lover's bony shoulders. It should look ridiculous, but this is Sherlock, so of course it doesn't.

“Why would you -”

Today seems to be the day of unfinished exclamations. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I couldn't choose. Also, the layers keep me warm.”

The unspoken _obviously_ floats heavy in the air of the small kitchen. Mrs Hudson tuts at them both and removes the buns from the oven. She piles a plate full of them and gives it to John, ushering them both towards the stairs.

“Up you go now, keep the fire burning, and you think about what I told you, young man,” and with that she turns her back and goes back to her kitchen.

Sherlock leads the way up, as usual. John follows the swinging helms of three dressing gowns and almost drops the buns when Sherlock stops to open the door at the top.

The living room is warm and the curtains closed – a sheltered, welcoming den. Sherlock stalks across the room to flop down on the sofa, giving the fireplace a hard stare.

“It needs more logs,” he tells John gravely.

John sighs, leaves the plate on the living room table and goes to put the kettle on in the kitchen. When the water is boiling he turns around, hands on hips, and starts the lecture. Again.

“You can't except me to drop everything and hurry back here because you're alone and want a fire started. You have two capable hands. Please don't ask me to come home unless there's a real emergency going on. Do you know the story of the boy who cried wolf?”

The resulting sulk is an answer in itself. When he's like this, Sherlock closely reminds John of the Queen of Sheba, lounging on his throne, the sofa, in his robes, the actual robes. All of the 221 Baker Street is his to reign over, and as if to prove this point to him Sherlock chooses that exact moment to yell at Mrs Hudson, who soon emerges from the stairs carrying a teapot and a small purse.

“I'm going, Sherlock dear. You take care.” The last bit is aimed straight at John, who still stands in the kitchen, listens to boiling water and stares at the steaming pot at their landlady's hands which is clearly prepared for Sherlock's personal use.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” he stammers and wonders when he lost the track of the evening. Hopefully it happened after he left the clinic. Mrs Hudson leaves the pot next to the buns, glares at John one last time and disappears down the stairs. Soon after the front door opens and closes, and they are left alone.

Sherlock has already helped himself to the cinnamon buns and the tea, to which he adds a generous amount of sugar. John stands, and ogles, and finally decides to just go with the flow and add the damn logs to the fire and then get some reading done.

It doesn't take long before Sherlock is fidgeting on the sofa. John raises his head from his book just in time to witness a detectively squirm against the cushions.

“I'm hot,” he complains from under the three dressing gowns and the winter duvet around his shoulders, a steaming cup of tea still in his hands.

“Now that's a surprise,” John mutters, looking meaningfully at the piles of clothes and fabric, “maybe if you took some of those away?”

“No!” Sherlock burrows deeper into the sofa. “Hot is good. Come here.”

It takes a bit of arranging, but eventually they both find a comfortable position, John tugged on the corner and Sherlock half-splayed on top of him. John even maintains eye-contact with his book, but unfortunately, so does Sherlock. Not surprisingly, he has some strong opinions about the characters and the plot.

“But that's just plain idiotic, why did she do that?”

“She was young and blinded by love, Sherlock.”

“Give it another twenty pages and she'll be young and dead.”

In fact, it only takes sixteen pages. Sherlock puffs and mutters all the way there, and it's nice and distracting in a way John's not used to. Eventually, he has to ask the question.

“Not that I'm complaining, but what's this about?”

Sherlock tenses up against him. “Is this one of those relationship discussions you insist on having?”

“I don't know, Sherlock, you tell me. But you've got to admit this is a bit – bizarre.”

“If it's one of those, the book has to go.”

John surrenders the book easily. It ends up under the sofa, and Sherlock twists around until John finds himself nose to nose with a consulting detective, the only one in the world. At the moment, the consulting nose is slightly wrinkled, that gaze turned inwards.

“Well?” John prompts.

“You are right,” Sherlock decides after a long silence, “it's bizarre. I've got an experiment I've wanted to run for some days now. I'll just -” and he starts to withdraw, but John is quicker, secures him in his arms.

“Hey hey, I didn't say it wasn't nice,” he chastises gently, and it's only when Sherlock gives up and lies down again that John recognises that expression. It's him being unhappy to admit to himself he wants this, the incredulousness of enjoying something as simple as this. Cuddles on the sofa. Pushing his luck, John starts drawing tentative circles into the rigid back with careful hands. After a long time, Sherlock lets out a small sigh and nuzzles even closer, accepts the situation.

John doesn't want to think about it, but he does anyway. Sherlock still guards himself closely, can't relax in his company. It feels sobering, but this is a breakthrough. Having Sherlock here, just like this, without any ulterior motives, is beyond nice. It's also beyond unlikely to ever happen again, and he wastes long moments trying to come up with strategies to duplicate the circumstances. Against his chest, Sherlock twitches and long fingers dig into his jumper. He can't possibly be falling asleep again, can he?

“Sherlock?” He ducks his head just as Sherlock turns his, and the result is John's lips brushing against the pale neck, next to the scar. It's forbidden area, one John goes to great lengths to appear not to be avoiding. They both tense up, but then Sherlock completes the turn, gives him a hard stare and reinstates the position, pushes against his mouth. It's an invitation if John ever saw one, and opening his lips and mouthing at that neck is too tempting to resist. He scents, and explores, and when Sherlock doesn't withdraw he grows bold and lets his tongue out to play. The alpha inside does a little victory dance. He ignores it. This means nothing. Just cuddles on the sofa.

This feels dangerous and exhilarating, and John hasn't done this in five long months. He thinks back, once again, to Sherlock during the heat, shivering and bloodied from his bite, and then later on the parking lot floor, nearly passed out from the pain of the broken rib and still determined to win John back to his side. He almost gave in, then, only his anger at Sherlock's thoughtlessness holding him back, and he's glad it did.

Without his sentient permission the tongue gives way to teeth, lightly nipping at the offered flesh.

Because when Sherlock had healed, when John finally allowed himself to touch again, he'd been pleading at John, not for an alpha's mark but for his own independence, to be defined as a person and not as an omega. Mycroft had warned him, before all of this started. John's fiercely relieved he'd listened, even if at that point he really hadn't understood.

His hands find their way to Sherlock's head, keep him in place, and sucking feels so good, so natural.

_“Sherlock values his independence and mental faculties above everything else. What do you think happens when those are taken away from him?”_

There's a purple bruise on his neck, the restless blood so close to surface, and it would take just the slightest nip to draw it free. He hums, laps at the hot skin, savours the moment.

Sherlock is still. He's very, very still.

Something is wrong.

His actions hit home and John recoils, pushes Sherlock away, far from him. He needs to flee, needs to get out of here. He's out of control. Sherlock hits the table and slides to the floor, reaches for him uncaringly. Stupid Sherlock. He should be getting away, not pressing closer, and John's not quick enough, he's never been, and Sherlock tackles him to the floor before he gets to the door.

Grey eyes pierce him. Strong hands grip his arms. John struggles. He needs to get out, why can't Sherlock see that? He's not safe around him. He needs to leave right now, but Sherlock knows what he's doing, and getting free would mean hurting him. Unacceptable.

“I'm sorry, let me go, I'm so sorry.” He knows he's babbling, but what he did was way over the line. Sherlock moves his knee until it's pushing straight into his crotch and then some. John stills. It's that or say good-bye to his balls. Sherlock's voice, when it comes, is a snarl.

“I don't need your chivalry.”

There are thunderclouds on those eyes. John stares, riveted.

“I don't want your benevolence.”

The words are spit out like they were venomous. Above him, Sherlock looms like a big jungle cat.

“Do you know what I want? Can you look at me and tell me you know what I need better than I do?”

Is he expected to answer? What was the question?

The knee digs deeper into his crotch and John manages a shake.

“No. Of course you don't. Ask me.”

He opens his mouth, but only a stunned sigh comes out. Sherlock shakes his wrists, clearly unimpressed.

“Do it!”

He needs to wet his lips before finding his voice. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I want you, John Watson. I only ever wanted you.” The answer is immediate, and in sharp contrast with the anger directed at him. John nods, confused.

“But you have me.”

“No. I've never had you. You always hold back. I want all of you.”

John's eyes widen.

“If you think I'm having an affair, then I swear to you, Sherlock, I never - -”

Sherlock has both of his arms occupied, and so he silences him with his mouth. He's never been kissed so furiously. It's like Sherlock wants to eat his tongue, and not in a good way.

“No, you idiot. What are you?”

“Wha - -?”

“Do I have to spell everything out for you? You are a doctor, and a soldier, and my friend and lover and blogger or whatever it is you want to be called, but those are all superficial. Deep down, what are you? What is the one thing you won't give to me?”

John just stares. This isn't a deduction, this is Sherlock being bloody angry at him. He's arresting, he's brighter than the sun, and he's presently grounding his knee against John's balls. It's not gentle, or seducing, it just hurts. Sherlock pins him down and hurts him, and John wants to fuck him through the floor straight into Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

Who would have known?

“You still don't get it, do you? Look at me. Look at what you do to me.”

And John looks, and Sherlock bares his neck for him, and the mark stands red and proud there on his skin.

“What is the part of yourself you won't give to me, John?” Sherlock asks, and John thinks he understands, but that thought is impossible. Sherlock doesn't want that.

“No,” he says, and it's a mistake, because that knee moves sharply up, and some things that aren't meant to be crushed _are_ , and Sherlock is _sneering_ at him.

“You're second-guessing me again, John,” he says, and his grip on John's wrists somehow turns even tighter, more punishing, “don't do that.”

John, wisely, keeps his mouth shut.

“I'm not an innocent, I'm not some stupid heroine in your story, and I sure as hell don't need your misguided attempts at protection.” Every point is emphasised by nails digging into the skin of his wrists, and John's going to have marks tomorrow. He can't bring himself to care. Sherlock is glorious. Who would have thought bloody furious could be so sexy?

He only just manages to swallow his groan when Sherlock lets him go, raises up and brushes his robes. Cold, again. Detached. Like this was a crime scene, and John just another clue to be examined.

“You need to leave now, John,” he says and his voice is very cold, steady.

_Oh Lord. This can't be happening._

The shock must be clear on his face, because Sherlock stops for a moment, takes another step back, explains himself.

“If you stay here, I'm going to hurt you. You know I'm able. I will hurt you so badly you may never recover. So take your jacket and go. I'll text you directions in a moment.”

His face is perfectly serious. John raises up gingerly and follows his erection out of the room.

–

He didn't know what to expect but a shopping list wasn't it. It takes three readthroughs to understand what he's seeing. His directions – his punishment – is an order to go to Tesco and buy food. Actual food that you can put into oven and digest. And vegetables. There are _bananas_ on that list.

Maybe Sherlock has finally gone mad. Madder.

What on earth just happened?

John has no doubt Sherlock could tear him apart both physically and mentally if he so chose. John might be stronger, but Sherlock is devious, and too cunning by half. He kind of understands why Sherlock sent him away, but what went on before that is a more difficult bite to swallow. At first he thought Sherlock lost his temper at John's inability to control himself, at John's attempt to mark him for his own, but that doesn't seem to be the case anymore. In fact, Sherlock only became angry after John stopped, when he tried to get away.

Does that mean that Sherlock actually wants - -?

The thought is too foreign to complete. It goes against everything John knows about his friend, or thinks he knows about him, and how can he live if he has to double-interpret everything about him from now on? Why is he so afraid?

Wait, that's one question he actually knows the answer for.

Losing Sherlock. He can't bear the thought of Sherlock growing tired of him, or worse, his alpha coming back to whisk him away. He has nightmares of being replaced, of being found too ordinary. And what has he done to safeguard against that? Tiptoeing around his lover won't win his affections. Sherlock is no damsel in distress and John is certainly no knight in a shining armour. Treating him like a delicate petal, like an omega, will only piss him off. John is, again, an idiot.

It's a wonder Sherlock hasn't slapped him around the floor earlier.

He completes the shopping trip deep in thought and when he gets back home there's a black car outside their door.

_Shit._

He really doesn't want to meet Mycroft now. He has one Holmes in a strop to calm down. Two might just prove too much. And they've been there alone, talking about who knows what. It's very possible 'a strop' doesn't even begin to cover it anymore.

Instinctively, he checks the windows. They are all closed, and in one piece. No one has exited that way. One can never know, with those two. He draws a deep breath and enters the building.

–

It's not Mycroft.

There's a strange woman sitting in Sherlock's chair. She's handsome more than beautiful, formally clad in severe lines. Her hair is very dark brown, greying on the temples and tied into that kind of do which takes professional stylists an hour to perfect.

Her stylist has taken two.

She seems relaxed in a predatory way, her hands resting on her knee and her eyes thoughtful on the fire. When she hears John opening the door, she stands up unhurriedly and greets him with a brief, practised handshake.

“Viola Holmes,” she says and John nearly loses his balance.

The details blur into a whole and John sees what's really in front of him. A female Mycroft.

He suddenly wishes desperately for the original one.

He makes his way through the introductions, dumps the shopping bags into the kitchen and glances worriedly at their bedroom door. It stays closed. There's not a whisper of Sherlock to be found in the flat.

Mummy Holmes declines his offer of tea, coffee or anything else for that matter. She waves towards the chairs as if John was the guest here and they sit down silently. John folds his hands into his lap and tries to remember he used to be an army captain.

“Why are you here, Mrs Holmes?”

“I'm doing my duty to my sons.” Even her pronunciation is precise, clipped. She's clearly not one for small talk, for useless formalities. John recognises that trait in certain other person who resides here.

“This – arrangement they have, it's not one I can approve of. I'd never have permitted it. The only thing one can applaud is that they've been discreet about it.”

“You mean, between Sherlock and his -”

She gives John a cold, bland stare. Clearly, this is not a topic she's willing to discuss in any depth.

“I'm here to make sure that approach doesn't change.” 

He waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. Mummy Holmes has her eyes fixed on him, and if she's anything like her sons, John might as well confess all of his sins right now. The silence slowly grows deafening. He falls back on his army training and makes himself relax, adopt parade rest as closely as one can while sitting down.

There's a twitch of approval on her face. It's gone in a second, but John has had years of practise in reading Holmesian features. It was there.

“I'm sorry, Mrs Holmes, but there's milk in those bags,” he apologises when the whole staring thing starts to feel ridiculous. She waves an elegant hand.

“Oh, don't worry about the milk,” she purrs, and the k practically leaves an echo, “this is much more interesting.” She crosses her fingers, rests her chin on her hands, and momentarily becomes Sherlock. John can't catch the smile in time.

“I remind you of somebody.”

“Well, yes. Two somebodies, in fact. I guess that's not a surprise.”

“Mycroft has told me about you, but it's useful to see with my own eyes. He has been known to be incorrect at times. Especially when it comes to him.”

And there are the twin reasons for her visit. Distrust on Mycroft's deductive capabilities. Break my son's heart and my lawyers will kill you. Two birds caught with one stone.

“Was he incorrect now?”

“No, I don't think so.” A musing answer, eyes boring into his own. Blinking feels dangerous. He does anyway.

“And Sherlock - -?”

That coaxes an expression out of her, a slight wrinkle of her eyes: dissatisfaction.

“Is being himself. I'd wish you patience and persistence with him, but I rather think you already have those covered. I do hope you understand what you're entering into, though. This isn't just another fling, doctor Watson. Permanence is expected. I shall not allow for another – misjudgement.”

It's a strange way of a mother to be talking about her child. John tries to imagine growing up attached to this person and fails utterly. 

Apparently, the visiting time is over. Mummy Holmes nods her head, gathers her purse and heads for the door without useless pleasantries. John only just has time to open it for her. On the stairs she turns around, looks up at him and channels Mycroft for a second. Or maybe it's the other way around. 

“Just so you understand, doctor Watson. I won't have the family reputation tarnished.”

Another nod, and then she's turning and disappears to the Holmes-approved brand of black car. John stands, alone and bewildered, on the staircase.

And he thought _his_ family had issues.


	2. Such Unlikely Mercies

He takes a moment to put the shopping away and give Sherlock time to emerge on his own. When nothing happens in fifteen minutes he knocks on the bedroom door and then carefully opens it. It's dark inside, the curtains closed, and his eyes take a moment to adjust. He doesn't even think about turning the lights on. The darkness makes some things easier.

Sherlock is not on the bed. Instead he's hunched on the floor, on the far corner of the room, as far away from the door as he's able to, wrapped into his gowns and staring at nothing. He doesn't react when John stumbles inside, his impassive demeanour only betrayed by the disobedient hand on his scar, restless fingers stroking and nipping. The skin is bruised even where John didn't suck, redder than it should be if Sherlock has only been worrying it, dark enough to be seen even now, with the lights off and the curtains closed. God, what has he done to it? Sitting on the cold floor, hurting himself, rather than meeting his own mother?

In comparison, things between him and Mycroft are going swimmingly.

What kind of a person, what kind of a mother, is Viola Holmes?

“Sherlock?” He keeps his voice low, his posture unthreatening. He remembers another dark moment on this floor, but quenches that memory. This is different. This time Sherlock isn't in heat, shouldn't be for months yet. John didn't cause this, whatever it is that this is. He didn't. Of course he didn't. It was Sherlock's mother. It was only her.

He avoids looking at the blank eyes. Sherlock should never look that empty. He should be overflowing, barely contained, itching for the next big case. Not silent and small on a dark bedroom floor, hiding under layers and layers of cloth. This is wrong. John crouches down in front of him, takes a hold of his shoulders.

“Sherlock? She's gone now.”

A slow blink, grey eyes focusing on him. He's coming back, from wherever he went to escape his mother. His own bloody mother. What kind of a fucked up family is this?

“She should never have come.”

It's nothing more than a coarse whisper, not scared, but devoid of any emotion, burned empty years ago. John takes deep breaths, stays army-calm. Nothing happening here, move on, civilians.

“She has forfeited her say on any matters concerning me a long time ago.”

“Are you all right?” It's a formality between them, too easy to see that he's not, and just as easy to predict his answer. Sherlock shakes him off, brushes imaginary lint off his gowns. He's fully back now, annoyed and impatient as ever. How much of that is smokescreen? Is Sherlock ever going to be anything less than utterly mercurial to John?

No time to wonder anymore. He's pushing John away, glaring at the darkened room. 

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be? Did you do the shopping? I'm starving.”

He stands up and stalks to the kitchen. John follows behind and gathers the gowns Sherlock sheds as he goes. He's down to his pyjama bottoms by the time he reaches the fridge and John stands awkwardly on the threshold holding three robes and a felt.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm? I'm hot,” the half-naked Mummy-avoiding apparition snaps and stacks sandwich ingredients to the table with an alarming speed.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Stop repeating yourself and help me with these,” Sherlock instructs and throws the bread at him. John hasn't got any free hands to catch it, and it hits his chest before dropping to the floor. He dumps the clothes to the bedroom, picks up the bread, and soon enough there's a pile of sandwiches for Sherlock to devour. John saves two and leaves the others to their fate.

Eating seems to calm his friend down somewhat. It's as good a moment as any.

“I'm sorry about earlier.”

Sherlock stops, looks at him terribly tenderly. John is immediately suspicious.

“Yes, and I'm sorry about tomorrow.”

“Oh God, what's going to happen tomorrow?”

He's offered a glare of absolute disappointment.

“If you can't observe that much, I'm certainly not going to tell you.”

“Sherlock!”

“Even Mrs Hudson got it without hints, John. Really. Do even try.”

John frowns. Time to play the circus poodle, then.

“You sleep awfully lot.” He gives his lover a long, hard stare.

“And you eat. You eat more than I do. That's weird.”

Another pause, another thought.

“And this clothes-thing is weird, too. Not that I'm complaining. Please feel free to wander around half-naked as often as you like to.”

And then there's the fact that - - He can as well say it aloud. It doesn't change anything.

“And your Mummy visited. Let us hope she never does again.”

Sherlock nods grimly at that and attacks another sandwich, all the while looking at him. Waiting for the understanding to come.

An idea starts to form. It's a terrible, terrible idea.

“Sherlock, are you pregnant?”

The sandwich currently being eaten ends up on the kitchen table. A glass of water and a couple of minutes are needed before Sherlock manages to get the coughing fit under control. John hovers nearby, too terrified to settle down.

“No! I told you, that's not going to happen!”

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh Lord, thank you.”

Sherlock glares at him. Should he have said that? He shouldn't have said that. He's too rattled now. Can't control his thoughts, or his mouth. Damn. Backpedal. Backpedal fast now.

“It's not that I wouldn't want your babies, it's just that - -”

“John. Shut up. Now.”

John does.

“On second thought, it's better if you don't try thinking for yourself. It's clearly detrimental to your – thought processes.”

“Sherlock, there's no point in what you just said.”

“I'm going into heat.”

“How can thinking be bad for thinki – What?”

“I'm going into heat.”

“What? _Again? Already?_ ”

“Yes, John.”

“But, _how_?”

Sherlock shrugs, channelling the air of someone utterly uninterested. “A close proximity to an available alpha? A change in hormonal environment? Stress? Lack of stress? This is _biology_ , John, it's hardly _exact_.”

It shouldn't happen for months yet, John wants to say.

That's why I can't keep my hands off you, John wants to say.

What does it feel like, being an overclocked bomb, John wants to ask.

Are we doing this together, John wants to ask.

“All right,” John says.

“Is that it?”

No, John wants to say.

“Yes,” John says and smiles. “You said you wanted the whole alpha experience.”

It's lovely, the way the blush starts from Sherlock's chest. He should go shirtless more often.

“Yes, about that,” Sherlock mutters and fails to meet his eye. His hand creeps up his chest, towards the red mark.

“You were stockpiling,” John exclaims, catching up. “That's why you're eating all the time. Is sleeping the same?”

“I was _trying_ to have a meaningful conversation,” Sherlock answers, snapping the hand down, “but fine, let's talk about that. No. I was actually tired. It happens.”

He refuses to say anything else. They finish their supper silently and then John goes to bed, alone. He's not sorry, he needs the thinking time anyway. And the rest, too. God, another heat, already? There are a thousand things John would like to ask, but he knows that Sherlock won't answer him, at least not in a way he'd understand until it's too late.

He falls asleep listening to Sherlock pacing in the living room. Agitation, increased appetite, changed sleeping habits, unnatural body temperature. He had all those hints, and yet he didn't catch on. And he calls himself a doctor. What's coming next? Medical texts would suggest anxiousness. Previous knowledge of Sherlock tells him anything is possible.

–

He wakes up in the middle of the night to Sherlock kissing him. He's being clumsy about it, pressed tightly against John and laying wet kisses anywhere he can reach. He smells of cigarette smoke and bananas. This is weird. It's very seldom that Sherlock initiates any kind of physical contact apart from manhandling John around the flat or into his jacket, and it's even rarer that that contact is moderated. With Sherlock it's either a whirlwind of limbs topped by an unblinking attention or absentminded touches in the passing.

He has that attention now, but it's frayed on the edges, graceless and rough. Sherlock kisses like a man going to his death when the morning dawns. He strains and pants a little, hot messy mouth against John's skin and hair. Cigarette smoke and bananas. But he agreed to stop. Didn't he?

“Sherlock? Have you been smoking?” He's sleepy, fights to open his eyes. The curtains are still closed and the room remains dark. How much time has passed? Only the faint light from the street lamps tiptoes inside from the narrow gaps between the fabric and the windowsill. Over him, Sherlock is a pale-eyed ghost, ready to disappear with the dawn.

“It's beginning,” comes the muffled answer. Sherlock presses his face into the pillow and cradles his own stomach, misery clear in his actions and his voice, “I hate this part. Just the one.”

The sleep disappears and for a brief moment John hesitates between the doctor and the lover. This is something he has never seen before. The detached doctor points out that restlessness and cramps are usual symptoms during the omega proestrus. Sherlock has been smoking because he's nervous. The very-attached-indeed alpha lover demands immediate action. Seeing Sherlock distressed makes his hair stand on end. John wants to hit somebody and then pee on the cigs for good measure.

“Are you pain? Is there anything I can do to help? Sherlock? Please talk to me.”

They should have discussed this earlier, when Sherlock still had his wits untampered. John should have made him talk. Maybe they could have avoided this. Would a hot water bottle help? Do they even have one? Should he offer to massage Sherlock's feet? No, that's for pregnancies.

God, he's such a mess, and it's just proestrus.

And now he has a fucking erection. Go away, stupid erection. Sherlock isn't interested in you quite yet.

Sherlock muffles a groan into a pillow and turns his back on John. He mutters something too low for him to hear.

“What was it? Sherlock?”

John's absolutely not panicking because Sherlock is entering estrus, the true heat. Of course he isn't. He's a trained medical doctor. He's been to war. He's seen all kinds of terrible things.

Sherlock is hurting. It's going to get worse.

“Please Sherlock, let me help.”

“I'm bonded.”

Oh, so this is going to be one of those weird off the tangent -conversations once again. Sherlock specialises in those. John lets out a neutral grunt, not yet sure where Sherlock is going with this one. The detached part of him is mapping out the potential routes inside – are the windows closed, the doors locked? He needs to keep Sherlock safe while he's vulnerable. It's very important he's safe. No one is allowed to touch him. Only John.

“I'm not bonded to you.”

Another grunt. It's not like Sherlock to state the obvious. Maybe he's further along than John thought. That would explain the persistent hard-on.

“Does that bother you? Would you like to change that? You would, don't try to lie to me. Why can't you just accept it?”

It's a monologue, which is good, because John doesn't have the slightest idea about how to correctly answer any of those questions. Of course it bothers him. But bonding Sherlock? That's a mutual thing. Would Sherlock want to bond him? Why on earth would he? John with all of his issues is not exactly prime mate material. Sherlock is brilliant, he's beautiful, he's devastating. He could have anybody he wanted, but he's already bonded. His bondmate is nowhere to be found to release him, no matter what Mycroft is insinuating. The whole idea is doomed to impossibility from the start. Why ponder on something which is never going to happen?

Apparently, Sherlock has come to the same conclusion, because he changes the topic on the run, face still pressed into his pillow, arms still protecting his stomach.

“I've gone through withdrawal before, you know. I know what it's like. It hurts. It always hurts.”

John might not understand the paths Sherlock's mind is travelling, but he does understand pain. Sherlock's in pain, and he's thinking about past pain. John lets out a low sound and reaches for his lover's shoulder, wanting to help. Sherlock snarls and moves away, slams a pillow between them.

“Oh don't coddle me, I'm not going to break,” but there's a small hitch in his voice, like he's not completely sure about that. But he remains in the bed, panting quietly behind the pillow wall, and John makes himself relax again.

Anxiousness, yes, but also irrationality. Spoken stream of consciousness. Of course heat would be a mental exercise for Sherlock. He should have seen that.

He should have seen so many things.

–

Sherlock jerks awake some hours later, and, by the virtue of being smothered into the mattress by him, John wakes as well. Sherlock's eyes are hazy, his nose high in the air. He inhales, shudders, then proceeds to climb out of the bed.

“He's here,” he whispers, and there's a touch of astonishment in his voice.

“What's going on? Sherlock? Is somebody in the flat?”

Sherlock doesn't seem to hear him. He sways on his feet, extends a hand to the wall and rights himself. The clean lines of his naked body seem softer somehow, more human, in the timid light of the early morning. John crawls out of the bed after him just as Sherlock gets his vertigo under control and heads for the living room. It's only then that John feels it too.

It's a familiar scent, dark wood and cigarette smoke, and it doesn't exactly grate on his nerves. It belongs together with Sherlock, separate and yet connected. But it has no place here, now, when Sherlock is like this, bare and vulnerable and holding himself together by force of will alone. But here it is, and Sherlock is walking straight towards it, and the way he carries himself makes it clear that he doesn't hear John at all. Asking doesn't change anything. The only thing he can do is follow Sherlock, who's already opening the bedroom door and John is still trapped behind the bed, naked. He forces his legs moving, and then the door opens, and there's no question about the fact that John's not the only alpha around.

Sherlock is naked, and in heat, and walking towards an alpha who is not John.

The growl sounds feral even to his own ears. Sherlock doesn't even flinch.

He has a grip of a thin wrist, his fingers unmoving like stone, and yet Sherlock won't spare him even a glance.

“Stay put, wait,” he whispers, and John has been trained too well to not to obey that voice. His hand drops free without a conscious thought and he stops, looks at Sherlock gliding away from him. The last embers of the fire paint dark shades of red onto his skin, his swaying hips. Sherlock is temptation on legs, already almost overwhelmed himself, and he's going away. He's going to another alpha. John raises his head, meets a pair of blue-grey eyes, gasps loudly. What on - -

Sherlock is going to _Mycroft_.

Mycroft, who stands in the middle of the room, between the chairs and the sofa, as prim and proper as ever. Mycroft, who stares at John over his brother's bare shoulder, and suddenly there are two alphas snarling in the room, two barely restrained wolves fighting for the same prize. For a moment yet, Sherlock stands on John's sphere of influence. Two steps, and he'll be closer to his brother. John bares his teeth, but his dutiful feet won't budge. Sherlock told him to stay. It's only Mycroft. There's no way in hell Mycroft would - -

One step. Sherlock's scent reaches for them both, and while it mingles with John's, it practically melts with Mycroft's. It's a melody of a sensation, Sherlock's rosin and spice and dry chemicals joining with Mycroft's deep forest and distant fire. Such a strong connection, more than familial relations should be. A memory deep inside John's brain tugs wildly and his eyes widen, ready for the understanding before it hits his brain. Mycroft would _never_ \- -

Two steps and Mycroft is reaching for Sherlock, his expression stricken and his feet as firmly planted to the floor as John's own. Both alphas hear the omega's little gasp, the pain in that, and John knows he's witnessing something forbidden, something to which he has no right, no part. Mycroft has his eyes on John, still, even when his scent, his arms, his whole body is straining for Sherlock. Wise man, Mycroft. John wouldn't trust himself either.

Three steps, and the unmistakable scent of heat fills the room, drowns everything else. John knows that if he could rip his eyes off Mycroft's face, he'd see a trail of wetness sliding down Sherlock's legs, and yet he's going to his brother. Why is he doing that?

There are three erections in this room, and that's one too many, but the spell still isn't broken. John stays obediently put. It's only Mycroft. Mycroft is family, Mycroft is safe. Mycroft could never in a thousand years - - 

There's an excellent explanation for this, and very soon now, any second now, it will be revealed to John, and all will be well. It's just Mycroft. Just Sherlock's brother.

Four steps, and now Sherlock is fumbling, falling into Mycroft's lap, his breath loud and lost in a way it should never, ever be, and both of the alphas turn their attention to him. Mycroft's arms close around Sherlock, and he's tender in a way John didn't know he was able to be, and Sherlock's clinging to him in a way that defies everything John thought he knew about the brothers. This is a shared need, a shared agony so deep that it permeates everything they are, clouds everything they do into a protective, numbing shell of petty arguments. The urge, the connection, has always been there. Once more, John has seen and not observed. His strings are being cut, one by one. He's drowning in the sound of his own furiously beating heart. Mycroft is holding Sherlock. Mycroft and Sherlock. Sherlock's skin pressed against Mycroft's three-piece suit as if it belonged there. Their scents, interwoven.

_I worry about him, constantly._

Sherlock shudders in the arms of his bondmate, and Mycroft, somehow, still turns to look at John. His face is so full of regret, so full of pain and loneliness that for a brief second, John almost feels sympathy through the shock of the revelation. Mycroft, in his car, speaking to him. Speaking about Sherlock, about his past, about the bond. Speaking about himself. How can so many truthful words form such a terrible lie?

_You do know he's bonded, right?_

But then Mycroft turns his attention to Sherlock, kisses him chastely, with a closed mouth, and Sherlock whimpers into the kiss, lost and limp in his brother's arms and finally the spell breaks. John's feet take him swiftly across the room until he's standing nose to nose with Mycroft, his bare chest pressed flush against Sherlock's equally nude back, Mycroft's arms the only barrier between them. The snarl is back, his fingers itch to strangle, but Sherlock is bare, Sherlock is vulnerable, Sherlock is between them.

It's very important that Sherlock is safe.

Very clever man, Mycroft.

_It was never meant to happen._

“Don't – interfere,” Sherlock whispers with a broken voice and that easily, John is bound again. He couldn't go against Sherlock's wishes if that meant saving his own life. Whatever the brothers want, it's going to happen. Sherlock has told John Watson not to interfere, and so he won't. He can't.

_It was a mistake._

Apologising, apologising even then. Had he known that it would end like this, with Sherlock between them, in their arms, both uniting and separating them? John can't hurt him now, not like this, not with Sherlock like this. He must have known. Oh, how he must have laughed.

Not exactly lies, but betrayal all the same.

“You bastard,” John whispers, and he has never meant anything as truthfully as that.

Mycroft nods, accepts the definition. His eyes flash briefly with something that could be humour in a different situation, but then he's dipping his head, nuzzling into Sherlock's shoulder, neck. Scenting. Unashamedly scenting right in front of John, when John could easily touch him, hurt him, make him suffer. But there's an insurmountable barrier between them, one made of a gasping omega, striving towards his bondmate's mouth, his head turned to side in a clear submission.

“Please,” Sherlock begs, and John clenches his fists and bites his cheek in an effort not to strangle the intruder.

He's himself the intruder.

If Mycroft wants to fuck Sherlock right now, right here, what will he do?

Sherlock told him not to interfere.

Would he be able to stand still and let it happen?

Sherlock told him to stay put.

If Mycroft knots Sherlock on their floor, what will John do?

If Sherlock begs Mycroft for it, how could John cope?

He'd stay, and he'd watch, and he'd make sure he remembers every detail, and afterwards he'd go and blow his brains out. Outside. He wouldn't want to bother Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock told him to wait.

He will wait.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft's voice is hoarse, too rough to be gentle, too soft to be impatient. Sherlock sighs and shudders against his shoulder. John clenches his fists, refuses to move. He may be dismissed, but damn it, he's _here_.

“Sherlock, look at me.” The prodding doesn't lead anywhere, he could tell him that. John can only see Sherlock's back, the sweat flowing freely already, the skin drawn too tight over the ribs. He can't see the omega's face, but he knows what's there even without seeing, having witnessed it many times before. Eyelids fluttering, the expression far away and slipping farther. Sherlock is already going, only half-way here. Soon the heat will take completely over. Doesn't Mycroft know _anything_? 

“Hold his head,” Mycroft instructs, and it takes John a moment to understand he's being spoken to. The ego of the man, making demands in a situation like this! He bares his teeth, prepares to say something scratching, but Sherlock leans backwards and Mycroft reluctantly lets him go, lets him melt against John's chest. John becomes briefly aware of his own unflagging erection, and then Sherlock speaks.

“John, please,” and his choice is done for him. He holds the boneless omega with one arm and uses another hand to secure his head, baring it for Mycroft, making sure Sherlock sees his brother.

When did his life turn into this? A plaything in Holmesian games, what is he? A knight? A pawn?

Mycroft waits a moment, waits for Sherlock to orient himself to the new position, and then he extends long fingers, caresses his throat, his neck, keeping his eyes fixed on his face.

“Are you willing?” He asks, and John doesn't understand why Sherlock's ribs move like he's crying.

“Are you willing?” Mycroft repeats, and the sound that rises from the omega is like desperation incarnate.

“Yes, yes I am,” Sherlock sobs, and he really is crying, and John still doesn't understand, “Mycroft, are you willing?”

“Yes Sherlock, I'm willing,” his brother answers, and there's so much emotion in that voice that John's hold falters for a second.

“Do it, then,” Sherlock gasps, and Mycroft kisses him again before dipping his head down, against the expanse of skin he's marked over a decade ago, nuzzling and searching until he finds the exact right spot. Sherlock's breath comes in short little pants, and another understanding is looming in John's consciousness, and then Mycroft bites, hard.

The metallic smell of blood attacks John's nose a moment before Sherlock cries out, and still Mycroft has his teeth in his brother's skin, his own shoulders heaving. Then there's a strong hand on John's neck, tugging him forward over Sherlock's downturned head. Mycroft's face fills his sight, and he's speaking through the blood in his mouth, on his lips.

“John, are you willing?”

“Yes,” he breathes, and Mycroft kisses him, hard and open-mouthed, he forces Sherlock's blood into John's tongue, pushing it in with his own, and Sherlock is crammed between them weeping openly now and shivering as in fever, but Mycroft is withdrawing already, leaving Sherlock alone with John, his eyes cold and shrouded now.

“If you hurt him, you won't see the morning,” he says, and then the door closes and Sherlock's feet fall away from under him and they both stumble to the floor.

Sherlock pants, and John wonders for a moment if this was all a terrible mistake, but then Sherlock turns to him, his eyes wild and pupils blown, his skin bloody and his scent different, changing, his own for the first time in fourteen years, unknown and yet right to John's senses. The tang of chemicals is gone, in its stead something innocent, something almost childlike. A memory of times gone, of a different Sherlock.

“John, please,” Sherlock cries, and John's arms cradle him automatically, “please, you said you were willing, you have to, John, _please_ ,” and the medical knowledge raises from some deep place, listing a cold fact after a cold fact about the consequences of an unravelled bond, the panic and the pain and the dependency and finally, the shock, even coma if a new bond isn't installed quickly enough. Sherlock is already coming apart from the seams, and _this_ is what he was trying to tell him earlier, _this_ was what he was trying to warn him about. Bonding and withdrawal and pain. John had been blind not to see it for what it was, and oh God - - 

Even _she_ was here for this because apparently _everybody_ knew about the bonding, everybody except for John Watson. Stupid, simple John Watson, who needed everything spelled out for him.

He fleetingly finds himself hoping that the lying bastard has somebody to go to, because this isn't easy for the alpha, either. But then Sherlock starts rocking, tries to turn and push his forehead to the floor, and John comes back to the present, and there's only one path in front of him.

Bonding is tricky. To work it demands the consent of both parties, no matter how short-lived. The consent is meant to be a biological back-up, a saving grace from unwilling fancy or abuse, but biology is easily cheated. Consent can be demanded, traded for life or loved ones. The want needs to be there, but only for the seconds it takes to complete the bond. Once given, it can be imprisoned forever, for the breaking of a bond is a mutual thing as well. No easy beta marriage or divorce for the alphas and the omegas. The Symmetry is demanding, and usually final. Once an omega is bonded he can't become unbonded again as long as his alpha lives, if even then. 

What the brothers are doing here, the changing of a mate, is nearly a stuff of legends. What alpha would be willing to let his omega go to another? Everything is alphas demand they take care of their own, protect and possess. Everything in omegas strive towards that possession. Betas find that romantic, enviable. The victims of bondings gone wrong know better, know it for what it is: a compulsion. But here is Sherlock, fresh out of an unwanted bond, emitting his brother from his system with each exhalation, and yet drawn towards a new danger, a new bond.

This is what Sherlock has been telling him all the time, ever since John barged in on him five months ago. This is what worrying that scar was about. This is what all those aborted declarations were about. But he needs to hear the words. The actual words. The words make this real. 

“Sherlock, are you willing?” He asks, and Sherlock nods messily, too desperate for answering, too intent on making himself as available as possible. His body demands that he presents, but to John that's not right. That's not how this should go.

“Why do we never discuss anything properly in advance?” He groans and tugs at Sherlock until he rises again, turns to face him.

“I'm not proper,” Sherlock answers with a thick voice, crouched on hands and knees, “never was proper. Can't be.”

It's not enough. The words will make it true. Otherwise, there will always linger a doubt. He must hear those words. He's not an abuser. He's not.

“Just, please, say it. Say it for me, if only once. Do you want to bond with me, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” breathes Sherlock, “I do. I'm willing.”

The rug must do. The bed is too far away, and Sherlock is right here. Sherlock is here, and Sherlock is magnificent, and Sherlock is his.

The rug will do splendidly. 

–

He kisses Sherlock, kisses until his distress becomes tranquillity, his sobs die down. He kisses him everywhere, nibbles at his lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, licks the little cupid's bow of his upper lip. He holds Sherlock down and kisses him into breathlessness, pushes him into acceptance until he stops trembling, gives him what he demands, moans readily into him. He kisses every trace of the old bond out of him, and then he proceeds to kiss himself into its place, to fill every niche of Sherlock's consciousness with his love and devotion. Little by little, Sherlock becomes calmer, slower, softer. He lies on his back on the rug, his mouth open, eyes half-closed, boneless and trusting. Safe, as he should've always been.

“Are you still with me?” John asks, because the idea of losing him now is terrible. “Don't leave me alone now, Sherlock. Stay here.”

“I'm here,” Sherlock breathes, “I'm right here.”

“Keep saying that, keep talking,” he orders, “don't you dare leave me now. We're doing this together.”

“I'm here,” Sherlock says and John kisses his mouth once more, deep and insistent. Don't go, Sherlock. Don't go.

“I'm here,” as John rains little caresses on his eyelids, cheeks, forehead, “kiss me again, I'm here.”

He doesn't miss it, the way Sherlock pushes against him, the way his legs part, invite him between them. They are wet, are Sherlock's legs, slippery and warm. His cock is warm too, flush against his stomach, hot and demanding where the rest of him isn't. He kisses Sherlock, kisses with teeth and tongue, and rises up to his arms to better press himself closer, and Sherlock lets out a little gasp, a little tremor.

“Open your eyes, look at me,” John urges, and waits until he obeys, slow and dazed. Staying in the present is becoming a struggle for him, drowning into the call of his heat so easy and tempting. Has this fight always been there, this little chance to wrestle control back from his biology? If anyone can do it, it's Sherlock.

“- - John?” He asks, a bit confused, before the haze fades away from his face.

“What do you need? What do you need to stay here?” John begs, unable to help his restless hips, his own aching cock brushing against Sherlock's.

“You,” the omega gasps, rising to kiss him again. “You in me, right now.” He tries to turn around, to get on his knees, but John catches him, pushes him back down.

“Oh no, you don't,” he warns, “I won't let you turn your head away from me. I need to see you. You're not allowed to leave me here alone.”

Sherlock lets out a low groan and there's a brief struggle which somehow ends with John on his back and Sherlock straddling him. His hair is a disaster, his shoulder bloody and his expression fierce. He's present, all right. John could weep from relief.

“I need you to fuck me,” Sherlock demands and rolls his hips over John's cock for emphasis. “Properly. Since you're so concerned with properness.”

Having that slick arse just sit there is a compelling argument, he has to admit. And Sherlock doesn't seem to be in any danger of slipping away right now. John pumps his hips and his cock finds its home between Sherlock's buttocks. The friction, the warmth, is breath-taking. Over him, Sherlock sighs and pushes down. John's toes curl.

“I could _come_ from this,” he realises, and Sherlock lets out a desperate whine.

“Don't you dare,” he breathes and does something complicated with his hips, with his hands, and suddenly John is surrounded, his cock is hot and pulsing and _oh God_ , Sherlock just took him inside, all of him, without any preparation at all. He's tight, he's so unbearably tight, and John is straining for more friction, or for not coming, or for Sherlock's skin against his own. Oh Lord. Sherlock will be the death of him, he will, he will. And now he's moving, no small teasing but long undulations of his whole body, he's throwing his head back and heaving and riding John and this is too much, too fast, he can't take much more, not now, not so quickly, not when Sherlock is making those noises and looking like that, utterly overwhelmed, utterly his. Oh God. Do something. Do something now, or this will be over before it started. Those hips. Oh Lord those hips, how they sway.

John grasps them, slams him down on his cock, refuses to let him move. He's panting, they both are, the control so tightly drawn now, so easy to break. Think. Don't look at Sherlock's cock. Come up with something. It's right there in front of him, red and leaking on his stomach. A distraction, anything. He wants to suck it. Speak.

“Why me?” He demands. Sherlock fights, his body insisting he keep on moving, looks at him incredulously.

“Why you? Why _you_?” He repeats, a slight hysterical edge to his voice. “You want to talk about it _now_?”

“I can make you come without knotting you,” John threatens, sliding a slick palm over that seducing cock. Sherlock's cock, Sherlock's lubricant, Sherlock's desperate moans and quivering thighs. It will take a lot of self-restraint, but he can do this. This is good. This is just what he needed. Give him a problem, keep him occupied. Don't come. He'll remain here. John can do this.

“You wouldn't dare,” Sherlock says, wide-eyed, intrigued. He knows better.

“Try me,” he confirms, moves his hips demandingly, “I would and I will. So tell me, Sherlock, why me?”

The sudden movement has Sherlock arching his back, struggling for more, but John has an iron grip on his hips.

“Cruel,” Sherlock pants, “don't ever stop moving.”

So John does, waits for his own heartbeat to slow down. Over him, Sherlock squirms and pants, little desperate circles on his cock. No knot there, not yet. Not until John has his answer. He can manage this, he must. Sherlock is anchored to this moment, now. He can't slip away and leave a question unanswered. Not Sherlock.

One arm on Sherlock's waist, legs raised to support his back, John starts to touch him. Gently at first, no more than a whisper of fingers, until Sherlock lets out an inarticulate gurgle, takes hold of his hand, demands more pressure, longer strokes. John gives it to him, keeps him trapped between his hand and his cock and watches with wonder how Sherlock gives himself up to the pleasure, thrusting this way and that, surrenders with barely a sigh. His balls draw slowly up, and John thinks he had an agenda here, had something worth finding out. Oh yes. That.

“Why me, Sherlock,” he asks again, “why did you choose me?”

“Who else would I choose?” Sherlock whispers back, slow and slurred, fucks himself on John's cock with small twitches, all he can manage. ”Who else is there for me? Even Mycroft saw it.” Longer strokes, faster movement now. Sherlock moans, his nipples as erect as his cock, there for John's pleasure. “Everybody saw it but you. You're blind, you're so blind. Don't worry, I'll observe for the both of us. We work, John, we _work_.”

Everything goes dark for a second, and when he comes back Sherlock is on his back on the rug, his calves raised against John's chest, his hands thrown over his head. John is pounding into him, keeping him in place and the knot, oh no the knot is already there, he can feel it forcing its way into the omega's body. Sherlock is keening, and urging him on, and how did this happen? He must have moved, why can't he remember moving? 

It's the alpha, the alpha is tired of waiting, it wants its prize, its omega. He can't. This is dangerous. He must get it under control. Sherlock sees the fight, of course he does. He promised John, he promised to see everything. 

_Help me, Sherlock. I'm going to hurt you again. Don't let me hurt you anymore. You've hurt enough._

“Let go, John. Let go for me.” 

It's not what he's supposed to say. He's not safe, he'll hurt Sherlock. He can't let that happen. He can't.

“Yes you can,” Sherlock murmurs, breathless, and did he speak aloud? He must have spoken aloud.

“Sherlock, please,” he pleads, but Sherlock strokes his sides, won't show any mercy.

“Shh, it's all right, I trust you. Give this to me, John. Give yourself to me. Let go.”

It's too much, the alpha is there behind his eyes and Sherlock right in front of them, both of them urging him on. He can't fight them both. He's going to give up. He's – going _to – give – up oh please I'm sorry forgive m_

The omega stares up at him, straight at his face, and there's a challenge in his eyes. He's too bold, this little omega, too sure of himself. He snarls at him, takes hold of his ankles and forces his legs open and up, forces his wet hole to contract, to better feel his cock. The omega yelps with surprise, but he won't give him time to adjust, no such mercies for this one. His cock is heavy and his knot feels huge, feels victorious as he thrusts inside, deeper than ever before, deep enough to leave a lasting mark, surely. The omega's eyes are wide, his pupils blown, his mouth a panting heart, but he's not struggling. He's trying to meet his thrusts even in this position, spread open with his knot sliding in and out of him and still straining for more. Good. Give him more. Everybody has limits, even this proud pretty omega. Let's find them.

He pushes his hands under the thin arse and raises him up, flush against his hips and starts thrusting with impunity, with all the force he can muster, and it's enough, it's enough to wipe that smirk off the omega's face, to make him offer his throat and mewl piteously. His cock is slamming against his own stomach, his balls tight and full. He's close to coming, is this little omega. But not yet, not quite yet. He's too sweet, too perfect to get such an easy way out. His tight little hole works around his cock, ready to accept the knot, ready to trap him in. Not yet. Not quite yet.

He flips him over then, and the omega goes without a fight, pliant and boneless. His body trembles and it takes a moment to get him to present properly, his face pressed into the rug, his arse high in the air, his balls hanging in between the shaking legs. He gives them a sharp tug for good measure and the omega cries with surprise and then he's on him again, pushing inside without feeling the slightest resistance. The omega keeps his head on the carpet, and that can't be comfortable, not with him pounding into his arse and jerking his hips backwards to meet his cock faster. He's not squirming, staying where he's put like an obedient omega should, only making sure to keep his arse up, his hole available for the taking. He's not going to come like this, not yet, there's no friction at all for his cock. Perfect. The sounds he's making are getting more high-pitched, more desperate. His to own. His to possess.

He changes the direction of his thrusts a little then, looking for that elusive spot which will seal his victory, and it's easy to find it when the omega is opened to him like this. The first brush has the omega tensing, pushing against him, looking for more. He's starting to whimper now, crying out in earnest every time he touches his prostrate, which is not often at all. He wants to keep him on edge, waiting for it, anticipating it. Soon enough the omega starts to yelp even when he doesn't hit it, starts convulsing from sheer anticipation, tries to raise his head, offer more resistance.

He gives him three hard thrusts against his prostrate then, and the omega screams, collapses under him, and he can't keep this up much longer. His cock is blood-red and the insistence to finish this, to knot and to bond, is getting harder and harder to ignore. Has he made his point? Does the omega know who he belongs to without any doubt?

Stopping is not an option any longer. He pounds home time after time, and the omega howls, raises his arse to meet him and turns his head aside in invitation. Good. Perfect. Gorgeous little omega. He folds himself around him, takes a hold of his cock and it doesn't take many thrusts at all until the omega is panting, is crying and trembling and then coming, contracting around him and it feels good, it feels brilliant. The orgasm is in his balls now, is surging up and it's too late to do anything about it, too late to resist, and he blinks and - -

Sherlock is crying, is begging him, and he has to bite, has to bite right now. There's hot flesh under his hands and John jerks himself forward and the scent of Sherlock is overwhelming, is everywhere. He nuzzles down, finds the spot, and it's still bleeding, still open, how long has it been? He doesn't know, doesn't have any idea at all, it doesn't matter.

“Are you willing?” He grunts, pants, and Sherlock has to answer fast, because he's about to come, it's only seconds away now, there's nothing he can do about that.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock cries with a broken voice, and that's enough, that's good enough, that's perfect really. He bites, and Sherlock screams, and then he's coming, no, they are both coming, they are a knotted, trembling, sweating, jerking mess of limbs and tears and fluids and the rug is most certainly ruined beyond repair.

It couldn't be more brilliant. It _works_.

–

Time passes, or doesn't. Words, spoken softly against warm skin.

“I'm sorry. I hurt you. I'm sorry.”

“Hmm. No. Shut up.”

Another moment, a blink of an eye or the whole day. It doesn't matter.

“You don't have to tell me, you know. Not ever.”

“- - What?”

“What he did to you. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But he won't hurt you anymore, I promise you.”

“John, shut up.”

He feels him, his contentment, his peace. The bond is a living thing between them, reassuring and unbreakable. He floats a moment longer.

“Where are you going now?”

“I'll come right back. There's one little thing I have to take care of.”

“Oh. Of course. And, John?”

“Yes, love?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me with yourself.”

–

Mycroft takes one look at him when he enters the office and immediately calls his secretary.

“We won't be interrupted,” he says matter-of-factly, and then, “and the camera feed will be cut off.”

John can hear a distant, surprised voice from the other end of the line.

“Yes, I meant that,” Mycroft says and puts the phone back to the table. He raises from his seat, still in the same clothes, walks around the table to meet John in the middle of the room. Offering a bigger target. Thank you, Mycroft.

“Doctor Watson – John,” he greets, “how's Sherlock?”

John didn't come here to talk, and Mycroft makes this easy for him. Mycroft is smarter than Sherlock, after all. He knows why John is in his office only hours after bonding his little brother.

An utterly gratifying punch to his stomach has Mycroft bending in half. 

“This is for Sherlock.”

Fingers on his hair, jerking him back up, wheezing. Mycroft may be taller, but John is determined. It's rare, a Holmes being this meek, but John reckons he's owed that much. He drags the unresisting head close to his mouth. Not long ago, they were face to face, supporting Sherlock. Not long ago, they shared something resembling a kiss for Sherlock. John imagines he can still see the blood in Mycroft's lips. He certainly can taste it in his own mouth.

But that's not why he's here, and Mycroft knows it. John has a message to deliver.

“You're a lucky man I'm a soldier, Mycroft Holmes, because I've seen enough of the world to know it's not black and white. You're a lucky man because if I was anything else, I'd kill you, even if it was the last thing I ever did, for all the hurt and the suffering you've caused him. You are one lucky son of a bitch, because you know what? I've seen enough films and written enough blog entries to know the tropes, and they'd cast you as the villain of the story. But what you've done this night, I think, was not an act of villainy, it was an attempt at redemption, as ill-played and badly executed as it was. In the stories, Mycroft Holmes, redemption equals death. But I think you've punished yourself already better than I could ever hope to, and so I'm letting you go. But don't you ever come close to him again. What you did was unforgivable, and I don't want to see you anywhere close to our home, do you understand that? You leave Sherlock alone now, and I won't bother you again.”

John has never before spoken with such a conviction, and Mycroft proves to be a rapt audience. He seems to agree, and John lets go of his hair, lets him straighten himself, but Mycroft is a Holmes. He has a penalty clause. Of course he does.

“But what if he needs me?” It's as close to pleading as he'll ever come. Mycroft loves his brother. Worries about him. Constantly.

“In that case,” John says grimly, “I'll give you a call.”

Mycroft nods. “I can accept that.”

“Then, if you'll excuse me, I have a mate to attend to,” John answers and storms out of the room.

Behind him, Mycroft Holmes leans weakly against his table and gives the closing door a sad smile. John let him go easier than he had expected. Such unlikely mercies. Always something to be learned.

“Forgive me, Sherlock,” he whispers, “heal well.”

The bottle of whisky on his suitcase waits unopened. His mind, for the first time in many, many years, is quiet, is his alone.

It's time to go back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Omega's Lament. Thank you to everyone who has read this far, it has been an unforgettable journey with you all.


End file.
